A City Sorrow Built
by phoenixrising934
Summary: Inspired by Casablanca - Britain is torn by war. The Order of the Phoenix has fallen, the Death Eaters are stronger than ever, and Draco Malfoy, devastated by lost love, wants no part of any of it. But when the ghosts of his past reenter his life, he'll be forced to choose, once and for all, to stand for a cause. Dramione.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** _A City Sorrow Built_

**Chapter:** One/Three

**Author:** phoenixrising934

**Rating:** M16

**Word Count:** ~14,000

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything you recognize.

**Summary:** When things fall apart, there's only one city where you can put the pieces back together.

**Warnings:** Language, some violence

**Author's Note:** Originally written for the 2013 Dramione Remix ficfest - my original prompt was Rick/Ilsa from _Casablanca_ :) Title comes from "Sorrow" by The National.

**I**

The glass is empty.

It's the first thing Draco notices when he comes to, and it disturbs him far more than it should, far more than he imagined it could. He relies on it though — the simple fact that the glass is always full with Firewhiskey, or more often a Muggle whiskey: bourbon, scotch, rye. It doesn't much matter, so long as he has stiff alcohol ready to chase away his thoughts. And now the glass is empty — no burnt amber droplets scurrying down the edge of the tumbler, no condensation hinting at the remains of cubes of ice. Nothing but emptiness.

"Goyle?" he calls, and his tongue has the consistency of old parchment in his mouth. He figures the sound didn't carry far; his head is, after all, tucked into the crook of his elbow on the desk, but to raise it would only invite a throbbing headache. "Goyle?" Another muffled, croaking request.

"Yeah, boss?"

Draco coughs once, twice, and when the words come out, they're weary and worn, like they always are. Like _he_ always is. "Get me a drink."

"Are you—"

"I'm sure." It's final, that statement. _I'm sure._ It's true, too. The consistency of the drink — that's the only thing he's sure of anymore, the only thing that is certain in a world that has ceased to make sense.

"Scotch okay?" Goyle asks, and Draco detects the concern and apprehension in his employee's voice but says nothing, just lifts one of his hands and gestures toward the glass.

Draco sighs in relief upon hearing the gentle gurgling of the liquid as it hits its new encasement of crystal. _I'll take away the pain_, it murmurs in promise, sloshing about in waves of pale gold, and Draco eagerly takes a sip, another, and one more for good measure.

"Thanks, Goyle." His voice still has a thick rasp and slowness to it, like a mixture of sleep and drunkenness. Goyle shuffles around his heavy feet, heavy in that they make sounds like cement blocks being dropped on the hardwood floor whenever he takes a step. He adjusts a button on the sleeve of his white shirt (freshly pressed, no doubt), and Draco knows he's waiting for something, can see it in the restrained but expectant blackness in his eyes.

Oh, yes — the radio.

It is something of a tradition that every morning, while Draco drinks and Goyle eats, they listen to the wizarding radio network, which is no longer called Potterwatch. It had been taken over by Death Eaters years ago, and as for Potter — well, there's no reason to look out for him anymore. If you want to find him, you can; he is buried next to his parents in Godric's Hollow, his casket surprisingly undisturbed after the initial release of photographs of the dead body by Voldemort and his lot. Draco remembers seeing an especially revolting image of his aunt cackling wildly as she held Potter's corpse up by the hair.

Few dare to venture near the gravesite. There is always a Death Eater or two (possibly Bellatrix herself, though Draco can't really see her doing something so menial) lurking in shadowy clumps of trees or the spindly arms of bushes, awaiting the chance to cast an Avada at a red-haired Weasley mourning the loss of the "The Boy Who Died," which the _The Prophet_ had so creatively dubbed Potter after his demise.

Draco twists the dial to the right and the radio crackles to life, its hushed buzzing overlain with a familiar voice. Goyle inclines his head to better make out the words, but Draco makes no motion to suggest that he cares to hear whatever is being announced, because he really doesn't. Half the time the words aren't true, merely fabricated stories to prop up the Death Eater movement, and the other half...the other half is worse, because it is true, and it's ugly, so bitter and hard to swallow that Draco has to drink constantly just to remind himself that at least there is _something_ with the ability to slide easily down his throat.

"You'll actually want to hear this," Goyle mumbles, because he knows Draco well. Goyle is a man of few words, and the words he says count, so Draco obligingly increases the volume and turns his ear toward the device.

"...Diagon Alley, where three faithful servants of the Dark Lord were brutally murdered by two members of the Order of the Phoenix, who then proceeded to steal important documents from the victims," says the voice of Amycus Carrow, and Draco pictures his fat, leering face, the malicious glint in his eyes. "You know where the killers are headed; you know what to do. Remember, the Ministry shows favor to all who assist in the capture, and those who attempt to help or hide the criminals in any way..." A wheezy, vicious laugh is released from the confines of the radio's small speakers. "Will feel great displeasure."

The knob is shoved all the way to the left, but the hum of the radio lingers in the room, meshes with the air molecules until it's like the room is vibrating with Amycus' threat.

"Bloody hell," says Draco, the latest news mingling with the mantra of _drink, drink, drink,_ that frequently dominates his thoughts. He gives in to the latter, nipping at the scotch before addressing Goyle. "You know who it was?" he asks, and Goyle shakes his head before Draco continues. "Stupid blokes, whoever they are, killing Death Eaters in the middle of fucking Diagon Alley."

"Whoever they were." Goyle's fork squeaks against his plate as he eats his eggs, and Draco looks away, a coldness seeping into his bones. He's right; the Order members are as good as dead already. The scotch begins to look even more desirable, its golden hue reminiscent of Felix Felicis. _Drink, drink, drink._

"How much time before they get here, do you reckon?"

"Not much."

Draco drinks because one day he knows it will be his luck that runs out, and this time the icy tingle in his bones isn't warmed by the scotch.

.

~#~

.

The streets pound with the footsteps of those who flee from the maskless Death Eaters. Blood splatters onto a cracked sidewalk, crimson easing into the empty spaces like it's filling up veins in a concrete body. At the end of the trail lies a single arm, some kind of twisted prize.

_You've reached the end of the blood. Congratulations, here's a limb._

Black cloaks whip in the salty breeze coming from the sea, and it's near impossible to tell who is predator and who is prey, who is chasing and who is being chased.

As he rounds the corner, a wandless, Muggle-born man trips over his feet and lands, hard, on the gray walk. There's a snap that can only mean one thing, and his eyes sting, because he _knows_. He knows, then, that it's over. He cries for help, and though his moans sound pathetic to his own ears, it's all he has left — that dying flame of hope. The nameless sprinters around him keep their eyes ahead, keep going forward, most likely making rationalizations as to why they can't stop to help him. Perhaps they don't even do that. Perhaps stopping is no longer put into consideration. He laughs a hysterical, high-pitched laugh and directs it at his useless ankle, which is twisted so unnaturally that the hint of a bone peeks through the flesh. His body rocks back and forth, now with sobs — it's a dark world now, a selfish world, because generosity, any semblance of care at all for a person other than yourself, will only bring you pain or death. Sometimes pain and death. Husband, wife, daughter, son — the words hardly mean what they used to. Nothing means what it used to.

There's a jet of green, and the flame burns out, leaving another shell of a stranger to rot in the misty drizzle.

Neville Longbottom witnesses the light, shivers, and runs faster. He casts a glance to his left just to make sure that, yes, Lee is still alive, and no, neither of them has been stopped yet.

Yet, unfortunately, being the key word in that observation.

The parchment in his trouser pocket feels as if it weighs a thousand kilos, though it can't be more than a few dozen grams in total. A few dozen grams, and yet it has the power to get him and Lee out of the United Kingdom and into the United States, away from all of the death and destruction. His breathing is getting more ragged as he pushes himself, and he can hear Lee's panting growing louder as well, but _dammit_ they had risked everything for these rolls of parchment, and they are going to live to use them.

It wasn't always like this, this seemingly endless race for survival. They had fought after Harry died, because he didn't die for nothing, or maybe it was more that the Order couldn't let him die for nothing. They fought with everything they had for a time, but they just kept losing. The Death Eaters swelled in number while the Order lost more members every day, either by death or capture, and sometimes, when things got really bad, there would be deserters. Neville wanted to hate the ones who disappeared in the middle of the night, to be angry with them at least, but he couldn't. He couldn't blame them for leaving. They, like everyone else, just wanted to survive.

Order safe houses were raided one by one until only a few remained, and no one, try as they might, had enough strength or inspiration to step into the role Harry left vacant. After Ron and Arthur Weasley were taken by Death Eaters and pronounced dead over radio airwaves by Voldemort himself, his voice uncharacteristically gleeful, things truly fell apart for the Order. Neville didn't know what happened to Hermione, Luna, the remaining Weasley siblings, or the any of the others, nor did he know where anyone had gone, only that he, Lee, and Seamus escaped to the English countryside. They Apparated to a field where willowherb sprouted purple flowers, hinting at the antiquated railroad that once carried the Hogwarts' Express through the land and the willowherb's seeds on the wind, and stayed until Snatchers found them one night, Seamus having set off the taboo to Voldemort's name. The colorful lights of spells danced in the twilight until a spark of green hit Seamus. He landed with a thud on the grass, his body still as the stagnant, humid air of late summer. The purple willowherb folded into a sort of crown around his head, and his eyes were blank and the clearest blue Neville had ever seen them. He and Lee managed to stun the Snatchers and Apparate away, but the body was left where it fell — there simply wasn't anywhere to take it.

Neville doesn't know why, but the final memory he has of Seamus is the image that haunts him most when he dreams of all of his dead friends — a ring of purple and a set of dull sapphire eyes.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Neville gasps for air as he is pulled back into the present and it's as if he can taste the ocean salt in his mouth. He checks for Lee, still there, still alive, and ignores the ache in his legs, the burn in his lungs. Almost there.

He doesn't know for sure if _almost_ is close enough.

.

~#~

.

"Lestrange."

"Macnair."

An exchange of nods occurs, and the third man steps forward.

"Rodolphus Lestrange, meet Blaise Zabini," says Macnair gruffly, indicating the thin, dark-skinned wizard, whose hands are shoved in his pockets. He, too, nods. "Zabini's in charge here," Macnair adds.

"Not anymore, you understand, Mr. Zabini."

Blaise quirks an eyebrow. "I won't be treading on your toes, if that's what you mean, Mr. Lestrange. You're welcome here in unoccupied Scotland."

"Glad to hear that, but if you ever tread on my toes, you'll find yourself licking my boots." They enter into a synchronized step, and Blaise already resents the presence of the older, more established Death Eater, though he supposes it's better Rabastan than his deranged wife. "Made any progress on the case yet?"

"There was a large group that tried to make a break for Tenebrosus from the northernmost Apparation point yesterday," answers Macnair from behind them. "Our men killed a few, but most were taken into custody for questioning."

"And?"

"No rolls of parchment," says Blaise, shrugging a single shoulder.

"We know who did it, though," cuts in Macnair, stroking his black mustache and grinning wickedly. "They crossed the border into Tenebrosus, but we know who has them."

"Neville Longbottom and Lee Jordan." The names are out before Rodolphus can ask, and Blaise ignores the slight twist in his stomach, a miniscule protestation to the words released by his lips.

It can be a bit discomforting at times, playing a role (even a somewhat insignificant one) in the executions of former classmates, but he's been doing it ever since he was placed in Tenebrosus. The town, still technically under Scottish jurisdiction, is a bustling hub of witches and wizards desperate to escape the hold of the Dark Lord. Some are here for a few weeks, others months on end, looking for passage to the United States, which has not yet been infected by the disease of war. The town has taught him this much — a war-torn world diminishes some of your qualities and amplifies others, and whether they're good or bad ceases to matter the further the war stretches on. The only thing that matters is that the ones that stick with you are the ones that keep you alive.

For Blaise, there's no denying which has been most powerful since the onslaught of the Second Wizarding War — his instinctual selfish nature is now what controls his every word, every action. Being a Death Eater has ensured his survival, and for that, he has no regrets. It also means he has an exiguous sense of morality, but he has learned to accept his human decency as part of the sacrifice to the cause.

Morality is such a small price to pay when compared to your life.

"Longbottom?" Rodolphus' eyes get a shade darker. "If he's anything like his parents, he'll be hard to break. I must admit, I'm hoping he is," he declares, his lips pulling back into a feral grin.

Blaise grunts, unsure of whether he is supposed to respond or what would be considered an appropriate response if he is. A grunt is safe. A grunt will not end with him licking anyone's boots.

"Where will I find him and the other one?"

"The Dragon. Everyone goes to The Dragon."

"Ah." The streaks of light across Rodolphus' face glow in understanding. "So I'll be paying my disgraced nephew a visit, eh? The little fucker's been hiding out here for how long now?"

"The bar's been open nearly a year," offers Macnair. "He runs it with that other blood traitor, Goyle."

"I always knew his father should have killed young Gregory when he refused to take the Mark the first time. At least Draco got that far." Rodolphus shakes his head in disapproval, his stringy dark hair falling into his eyes. "Anyhow, I suppose we'll be seeing him tonight too."

"I feel obligated to tell you, Mr. Lestrange," says Blaise as they continue to walk, his voice deliberately void of any emotion, "that you may find Scotland's weather somewhat colder than you're accustomed to."

"I can do warming charms just as well as the next wizard, Mr. Zabini. Unless, of course, you didn't mean the weather when you said I would find it cold here."

"What else would I have meant?" The older Death Eater does not respond, merely stares pointedly at his shiny, black boots.

Blaise wants to hang him by the bloody shoelaces.

.

~#~

.

"Will he at least have a drink with me tonight?" Goyle doesn't have to look up from the table he's wiping to know who is asking.

"No, Astoria." And this is the part in the conversation where her eyes will widen, and she'll pucker her lips until they resemble a dainty moue. Goyle glances at her quickly, just to check. The eyes are as large as always, but they're more frenzied tonight, glassy and wild at the same time. He wonders briefly whether she's been buying Muggle drugs from Mundungus Fletcher again.

"But if you could just—"

"No, Astoria."

"—then maybe he would! You're the only one he listens to, and I've been trying—"

"No, Astoria."

"—completely ignoring me! Of course I would be with the one man who doesn't want—"

"Astoria." Her lips meet again, compressing into a tight line.

"Goyle."

"I have to get back to work." He turns to leave, but she catches him by the sleeve.

"Goyle." And this time it's a plead. "I — just ask him for me, okay?"

He likes her best like this, when she doesn't feel the need to pretend. He doesn't like the pain etched into the thin worry lines between her brows, the desperation he can feel in the manicured fingernails pressing into his arm, but he likes that she isn't trying to be Astoria Greengrass, the only pure-blooded heiress in Tenebrosus. She's just Astoria, broken like the rest of them. It's why he nods every time she asks, even when he promises himself that he won't.

"Thank you," she says softly, and then Astoria retreats back into herself, leaving in her place a cold, patronizing Greengrass. "Now go." She puts a cigarette between her pearly teeth and is offered a light from an older, bearded man to her left. A burst of giggles erupts as his match goes out, a line of smoke curling into the air, and she thrums a delicate finger on the table while he scratches another stick against the matchbox.

Goyle turns away to grab his sopping rag and heads for the next table.

The Dragon is crowded that night. Regular patrons play poker, their expressions blank. They've been in town too long to have any semblance of emotion left in their countenances. Fresher faces are brighter, the distinct light of hope in the auras that surround them, and they are the ones most often taken advantage of by the money grabbers and ponzi men that hold business in the corners of the room, ensconced in exclusivity, the burning orange spots of cigarette butts the only evidence that shop is open. The business of human trafficking is not necessarily approved by The Dragon's owner, but he doesn't interfere. Some believe he takes a cut from the deals, controls them even, but no one knows for sure. All agree that the enigmatic nature of The Dragon adds to its appeal, and rumors fly like the creature the place is named for, tossed back and forth amongst fiery-eyed patrons.

"Did you know he has a secret wife?" whispers a young gossip, her lips painted a conspiratorial red. "But he doesn't let her out of the upstairs flat, because she's a wanted woman!"

"That's ridiculous. Seriously, where do you pick up this stuff?"

She flips her hair over her shoulder. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" It's not a subtle dismissal, and the other girl closes her mouth and slouches resignedly in her chair. "The wife may be a little far fetched, I'll admit, but I also heard he's on the run from You-Know-Who himself."

Heads bob in excitement.

"He's probably an Order member. I bet if it wasn't so dangerous he would've named this place The Phoenix!"

"Really?" Another girl looks skeptical. "Someone told me last week that he's secretly working for the—" Her head inclines and her voice drops to a throaty murmur, pulsating with the pride of catching this tidbit of information. "—Death Eaters. They are his family after all, right?"

"Not anymore." The girls gasp; a stray tube of lipstick clatters to the floor.

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy, we're so sorry, we didn't mean—"

"Of course you did," says Draco cooly, picking up the lipstick and placing it carefully on the table.

"Well, if there's anything we can do," tries red-lips, lowering her lashes.

"Come up with something more creative."

.

~#~

.

"You're _sure_ this is it? The Dragon?" Lee asks warily, rubbing his bruised elbow. He thinks it might be fractured, an opinion that he's only voiced about a hundred times in the past hour.

"Positive."

The doors swing open, allowing them passage, and Neville immediately begins scanning for a shock of platinum hair amongst the sea of patrons.

"You really think he'll help us? The ferret?"

"Don't call him that."

"But—"

"Lee," Neville hisses. "Shut. Up." The parchment in his pocket has gotten even heavier, and the sheen of sweat is glistening across his brow and upper lip. Not only are they wanted men, but they're on a time crunch. The parchment, which allows them the use of one of the only remaining portkeys to the United States, has an expiration date, and it's not far off.

"Is that—" Lee doesn't have to finish, because Neville's face visibly relaxes as he recognizes his former classmate. It's ironic, really, that the boy who bullied him all through school has become his greatest chance for survival, but if what he's been told of Draco Malfoy is true, he's a different person now. Whether he's different enough to harbor known fugitives (that he despised throughout Hogwarts no less) is unlikely, but still — the whole "greatest chance for survival" thing kind of warrants a try.

"Merlin, he looks...dead. It's his eyes," Lee continues, trying to explain. "They're all...blank. I don't know — like Seamus' were, you remember that?"

"Yeah, yeah I remember."

"And he's even more pasty than he was in school! Didn't think that was possible, but — damn, check out his face!" Lee exclaims in a heated whisper.

"What about it?"

"It's all gray and skinny, like a skeleton or something."

He's right. It looks like whoever crafted Malfoy ran out of skin when they reached his face — the flesh is stretched too tight over his bones, and it's pallid, a sickly sort of dove-colored clay. His nose was sculpted too pointy, his jaw and chin too sharp, and his eyes must have been an afterthought, shoved back into their sockets with a pair of thin, translucent lids shuttering over them. Now, they're like Seamus's, pale and unseeing, all of their youthful power absent.

It's disturbing to put it mildly, to see Malfoy like this. The war has done a number on all of them, but Malfoy looks especially awful, and Neville doesn't think he'd even been in a battle with the exception of Hogwarts. That night, Malfoy clung to the skirts of frays, not defining which side he was fighting for, though Luna did mention that he sent a hex in the direction of a Death Eater about to Avada her.

Before dawn broke, he walked away. Disappeared. Turned his back on war and never looked back. Supposedly, Lucius Malfoy was furious when he noticed his son's absence, but it was too late. He was gone. Neville didn't hear anything about him for years, not until The Dragon popped up in Tenebrosus and became the standard place for entertainment in the town. _The Prophet_ features an article about it every now and then, calls it a place for "Mudbloods and blood traitors run by the biggest blood traitor of all," but Neville has always suspected that the criticism adds to its draw — it's a small way of defying the Death Eaters, of showing that there's still an ounce of freedom left for the people they call worthless, if only that.

"We should go talk to him," says Neville quietly, indicating the former Slytherin student.

"Right." Lee nods, making to move, but hits his elbow on a table and releases a theatrical whine. "I told you it's fractured, Nev! Oh, Godric, it hurts!" Neville can't stop himself from laughing at his friend, and the noise feels funny and foreign in his throat at first, but then Lee keels over, gripping his arm, and he finds the familiarity, remembers all of the nights in Gryffindor Tower when every ounce of him was free. Though maybe he wasn't even then. Maybe the inevitability of war was always carried like a weight on his back; maybe as soon as he saw the boy with the lightning bolt scar, he lost his freedom — freedom of youth, of innocence, of life.

Neville's smile fades. "I believe you about the elbow."

"You damn well better!" It reappears briefly before he looks up where, standing in front of them with a glass of Firewhiskey, is Draco Malfoy.

"I heard you lost a finger, Longbottom, not your tongue."

Neville coughs awkwardly and pretends that his heart hasn't just dropped into his stomach. "Two, actually," he mumbles, raising his left hand, which no longer has a pinky or ring finger. He would have been a lot more concerned about losing his fourth finger if he thought he would live long enough to use it, which he didn't at the time. Which, sometimes, he still doesn't.

"Who was it?" asks Malfoy, and it's disconcerting that he hasn't (seriously) insulted anyone yet and that his tone is approaching conversational.

"Dolohov."

Malfoy hums in thought. "He always was a bastard."

"I, well, I guess he uh—"

"Wasn't a question, Longbottom." Neville knows his face is flushing now, which only makes his cheeks hotter, and he's experiencing flashbacks of an eleven-year-old Malfoy, a sneer on his face and his hair slicked back. "Merlin, I run a bar in fucking Tenebrosus and you're still about to piss your pants because of me?"

"I'm not—"

"Come on, Longbottom, we're both blood traitors now. Let's have a drink." He seems to notice Lee and eyes him for a moment as if trying to recall his identity. "You too, Jordan, even though you called me a cheater in Quidditch."

"Which you were," Lee points out. Neville has half a mind to smack his elbow, but Malfoy just smirks over his shoulder.

"Never said I wasn't, but you were supposed to be an unbiased announcer, which you did a right shit job at."

"Bullocks! I was great—"

"You were bloody horrible," drawls Malfoy, picking up a bottle of Firewhiskey from behind the bar counter and pouring two glasses after filling up his own. "Worse than Lovegood."

"Worse than—" Lee's face grows red. "I heard she talked about the shapes of clouds and forgot people's names!"

"Funny shit," Malfoy says, nodding. "Called that git Zacharias Smith out on his Loser's Lurgy, whatever the hell that is."

"Right, because that's what's important to comment on during a Quidditch—"

"Relax, Jordan, just taking the mickey out of you."

"Well," Lee huffs, "good to know you're still the slimy ferret you were in school."

"If I were still the slimy ferret I was in school, I would have kicked you out of here as soon as you walked through the door, if you even made it that far." Malfoy's voice has turn grave, and Neville's heart is still taking up residence in his gut. He's also experiencing nausea, what with his organs jumping around each other like chocolate frogs.

"You know then?" Lee shoves a stray dreadlock out of his eyes and shifts his wounded elbow uncomfortably.

"Who else could it be? You two are well-known Order members, and besides, only a couple of Gryffindors would have been idiotic enough to pick a fight in Diagon Alley."

"But you also know why, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know why. It's what it always comes down to now, isn't it? A way out of this hell on earth." Malfoy sighs deeply, inhales and exhales as if he's breathing in the whole world and pushing it out again.

"Do you — I mean, would you consider—" Neville stammers.

"Helping your criminal arses? Why, pray tell, would I do something that stupid? There's a reason I was put in Slytherin."

"Many reasons," Lee mumbles.

"Yes, there are." Malfoy downs the last of his drink, and Neville can almost see a spark in his previously apathetic expression, a trace of something he can't quite place — anger, bitterness, sadness, perhaps a combination of all three. "One of the reasons is my rational thinking, which is telling me not to help you, because I don't have any leeway with the Death Eaters as it is. Another reason is my ambition, which is telling me not to help you, because you're a liability to my future here. A third is my—"

"We've been running for months now, Malfoy. If you're not going to help us then just—"

"Here's what I'll do for you." Malfoy folds his hands together in a business-like manner and crosses his legs. "I'll pay for these drinks, and I won't let the Death Eaters everyone seems to think I'm so chummy with know that you're here."

"You still hate us, don't you?" Lee asks.

"How could I? I don't think about you enough to give a shit either way."

"We — we can find somewhere else to stay, but — the parchment. Will you keep it safe, just for a few hours while we figure out what to do?"

"Are you mad?" Lee whispers aggressively. "Store our way to America here with Malfoy?"

"We can trust him," Neville replies, his voice at normal volume. "So will you, Malfoy?"

"I want them gone before midnight, which gives you...approximately two and a half hours. Are we clear?"

"Thank you, thank you so—"

"Longbottom, are we clear?" Malfoy narrows his eyes, and Neville nods enthusiastically.

"As Goblin crystal."


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

"Good evening, lover."

"Lover?" Draco scoffs. "Is that what you're calling me now?" Astoria rolls her eyes from her place at the bar.

"Would you prefer sadistic, unfeeling prat who always promises to satisfy me but rarely follows through?" He has the audacity to grin, and Astoria digs her nails into her palms to keep herself under control.

"I have three problems with that nickname. One, it's a mouthful; there's no way in hell you could introduce me like that. Two, I don't appreciate the sexual innuendo, especially because it's highly inaccurate." Draco sits beside her, and Astoria wonders what number drink is being set down in front of him. "Three," he drawls between sips of his (third? seventh? hundredth?) beverage of the night, "I never make promises. Ever."

"Maybe not with your words."

He laughs out loud at this. "You can't be serious."

"What?" she asks innocently.

"Making promises with my gestures then, am I? Or perhaps it's all the loving glances I send your way?"

"That's not what I—"

"If I'm sadistic, you're the poster girl for masochism."

Astoria frowns, stares into the shimmering scarlet of her wine. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means."

It's silent then. For once, Draco lets a cloud of quiet musings settle over them, only it feels like it's raining, which is probably why Astoria decides to poke and prod at its billows.

"Why didn't you show up last night? You said you were coming." She tries to keep the sharpness out of her tone, but right beneath it is an aching neediness, which makes her think anger is the smarter route.

"Did I? I don't remember. Doesn't it seem like last night was ages ago?"

"Will you be there tonight then?" she asks, ignoring his question.

"If last night was ages ago, tonight is eons away."

"I hate you," Astoria hisses. It's a petulant, immature thing to say, but she wants him to hear it.

"Even if that were true, and we both know it's not, we've already established that you thrive on your own pain, get off on it even."

"How dare you—"

"You're a sick person, Astoria, but so am I, and that's why this is okay — because you accept that I don't give a shit about anything or anyone."

"You did once, though, didn't you?" It's a correct assumption, because his head swerves in her direction, and he's paying attention for the first time all night.

"What makes you think that?" Draco demands.

"I don't know." She drinks, shrugs, drinks again.

"Don't know?" he echoes sardonically. The dim luster of the lights makes an outline of gold around his frame, but it's not a warm glow, not even pleasant, and Astoria can almost taste the metal on her tongue.

"Is that why you despise people so much, Draco? Because some girl broke your heart?"

"Careful, Astoria—"

"No," she insists. "You don't get to tell me when to shut my mouth anymore. Who was it? Pansy?" He barks out a phony laugh.

"You're joking."

"My—" She hesitates, because it will be an uncomfortable thing to learn if it's true, but for inexplicable reasons, she has to know. The curiosity is wrapping itself like rope around where her heart is supposed to be, and maybe her reasoning isn't so ambiguous anymore. "My sister? Was it Daph?"

"No."

"Tracey Davis?"

"Buzzkill."

"Millicent Bulstrode?"

"Yes," he deadpans. "Because she's very much my type."

"Well, how could I possibly know your type? You hardly look at me, but it's not as if you're noticing anyone else." His gaze has left her again, and it's probably because he thinks he's won, has realized that she doesn't actually know anything of his past romance. It was a foolish, amateur move, showing all her cards in the beginning of the game.

"I like girls that like the rain," he says softly, his eyes far away. A disturbed sort of smile blooms on his face like a flower splitting out of its prison of petals, and she sees it — the streak of light cutting through the cloud of melancholy. "Do you like the rain, Astoria?" She considers lying, telling him that yes, she does, she could sleep and eat and breathe the rain.

"I hate it," she confesses instead, but he doesn't react, only sits in his square of light like one of Midas' golden statues, until the smile fully evaporates from his face.

"It rained last night."

"You said you couldn't remember last night."

"Yes, that's right." She can feel him shutting the chapter of his past, and the pages rustle across her skin like a chilled breeze.

"Did you love her?" The notes of desperation play into each little word and rise in a crescendo with the power of an entire orchestra. Astoria holds her breath, and the conductor pauses the musicians, whose hands tremble in anticipation as they wait to respond to whatever melody the man next to her chooses to pluck out on his vocal chords.

"Don't drink too much tonight," he says simply; then he glides away, his golden haze dissipating in his wake.

"Excuse me, bartender? I'll have another, and keep them coming."

.

~#~

.

"Evening, Draco."

"Evening, Blaise."

"You shouldn't be so hard on Tori," the dark-haired wizard advises. "You never know — you might actually want her one day, and she'll have moved on to someone else."

"Is that an offer to take her off my hands?" Draco inquires dryly, and Blaise laughs.

"Fuck, no. I have enough to worry about. Speaking of which..." he glances around his corner of The Dragon before scooting in his chair. "Your uncle's going to be here soon."

"My uncle?" Draco repeats, sitting across from him. "Which uncle?"

"Rodolphus."

Well, at least it isn't Rabastan, who had lost any last vestiges of sanity years ago. Though his brother is a far from desirable addition to the occupants of Tenebrosus, there's a slim possibility everyone will escape unscathed by the time of his departure.

"A family reunion. Lovely."

Blaise smiles sympathetically. "Just to warn you, he's going to ask why you left Hogwarts. I must admit," he adds, a lazy smirk on his face, "I'd like to know too."

"Of course you would."

"I have a theory."

"Of course you do."

"Here, let me set the scene for you." He clears his throat authoritatively, and his voice takes on that peculiar quality only storytelling can bring out, one of wonder and possibilities. "The castle is burning, and you're walking — no, running — across the grounds, and it's like the whole world is coming down around you—"

"This is shit already."

"I'm not done yet!" Blaise objects, then reluctantly lowers his arms, which were acting out dramatic gestures moments before. "Have to go and ruin my story, don't you?"

"Like I said, it's shit."

"Tell me the real one then," he implores.

"No."

"You killed someone, didn't you?" Blaise asks, scrutinizing his face, as if the evidence will make itself known if he searches long enough. "You killed someone, and you couldn't handle it — turned into a regular Moaning Myrtle, didn't you?"

"Something like that," Draco replies sarcastically.

"Pussy." They both grin, and Blaise downs Draco's drink, the ice clinking out a lively tune when he slams the glass on the table. "So how'd you end up here, then — in Tenebrosus, the land of the depressed and downtrodden?"

"Well I fit in well enough, don't I?"

"Downtrodden? Like shit, you're downtrodden," Blaise says decisively, shaking his head. "Depressed, I'll give you."

"You think I'm—"

"It's like every time you speak, something happy dies. Like a unicorn. Or a Hufflepuff."

"And you're such a bushel of roses, are you?" retorts Draco. "I wish _you_ were a sodding Hufflepuff; I wouldn't shut up until you were dead."

"That's not a very nice thing to say to a Death Eater." Blaise wags a finger in disapproval.

"You may be a Death Eater, but you're a Death Eater who I let get away with cheating at blackjack."

"Touche. You know, it's quite the game those Muggles have invented. Don't tell your uncle I said that."

Draco wouldn't dream of it, considering Blaise is most likely the only Death Eater in a position of power willing to vouch for him and his business. He and Blaise had fallen into a friendship — no, not a friendship; that word was too familiar, too attached. He and Blaise had fallen into a _familiarity_ — some distant cousin of the term friendship — over the past several months, but he doubts even Blaise would defend him if he knew that Longbottom and Jordan were in the next room over.

"I'm planning on avoiding him as long as he's in town, actually."

"That will be tough to do," Blaise says almost sheepishly. "He's on his way. We're making an arrest here tonight."

"What? Again?"

"The two murderers from Diagon Alley." Before he can stop himself, Draco shoots his focus to the door of the gambling room, only for a fraction of a second, but his companion catches it. "I hope you don't try anything stupid," he says pointedly, raising his brows. "Like warning them."

"Do I look like a Gryffindor to you?"

"Not in the slightest, but you're not as smooth as you think. I know about those supplies you sent to the Order a few years back, all those brooms and potions. I'm telling you though — those two aren't walking out of here free men." Draco nearly laughs. It seems Blaise is under the illusion that Longbottom and Jordan are free now when it's obvious that they couldn't possibly be considered so — they're reliant on him, reliant on the parchment locked in his safe, reliant on each other. No one in Tenebrosus is free, not even the Death Eaters. They, like Blaise, are just pawns to their superiors, and above all, to the Marks on their forearms, to the Master who can call them with an agonizing burn anytime he desires their presence.

"I look out for myself — always have, always will. I won't interfere."

"Good," Blaise says with relief, rubbing his long forehead distractedly. "One of these days, though — one of these days, you're going to want to play the hero."

"I much prefer the part of the villain."

"Hate to break it to you, mate," Blaise says, chuckling, "but you haven't been the bad guy for years."

"Well, if I'm not the hero and not the villain, then who am I?"

"I'd say you're an irrelevant bystander at the moment."

"Bysitter," Draco corrects, pointing to his chair, and Blaise smiles again.

"Still think you're going to go Gryffindor on me in the second act," he admits, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down. Draco notices that he stops just before reaching the Dark Mark but refrains from commenting. He understands, after all — when it's not hidden in fabric, the Mark becomes a third presence, a symbol of _him_, and it doesn't take much paranoia for the empty sockets of the skull to fill with serpentine eyes the color of blood.

"And _you're_ going to go Hufflepuff on me."

"Never. Especially not now."

"Oh yeah? What's going on?"

"Your neutrality is about to be tested," Blaise says cryptically.

A platinum brow shoots up. "How so?"

"Someone's on his way to Tenebrosus — someone high profile, who could cause serious problems for us if he gets to the U.S. — and apparently, he's got a shitload of money with him. He's going to get his hands on a portkey unless we find a way to keep him in Tenebrosus — permanently."

"And I know this person," Draco guesses. "That's why you think him being here will affect my neutrality."

Blaise's eyes sweep across the room before he pulls out his wand. "Mind if I—"

"Not at all."

After casting a silencing charm, Blaise continues. "Ron Weasley — he's the one arriving in Tenebrosus."

"The Weasel?"

"Don't tell me you're impressed."

"I can be impressed by someone I despise — the guy broke out of Death Eater headquarters, for fuck's sake." Much to the embarrassment of the Death Eater camp, even Voldemort himself, who'd previously gone on radio airwaves to announce his death.

Not many of the Order members know of his "resurrection" if rumors can be believed, because the information is being kept strictly hidden. The Death Eaters fear an Order revival if the news is released, so for all intents and purposes, Ron Weasley is dead (even _The Prophet_ refrained from rescinding its death announcement). But if he manages to get to America — well, Blaise's worries would certainly be warranted. Weasley could operate from there, work with the Order members already living in the States, and rebuild the resistance.

"Thanks for the reminder."

"And where the hell did he get all that money you were talking about?" Draco asks.

"No idea," Blaise says. His mouth tightens, and his eyes harden into glinting slants of onyx. "But I honestly don't give a shit," he continues, "because it doesn't matter. We're going to keep him here."

"I have to admit, I'm intrigued to see how he does it."

"How he does what?"

"Gets to America, obviously," Draco replies, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's dealing with an incompetent child. "Or do you really think you lot stand a chance in detaining him?"

Blaise's body tenses, and his fingers curl on the table's surface. "You know how bad it will look if I don't," he mutters.

"I know, but come on — he's got the money and the willpower." Smirking a bit, Draco puts forth a wager, the kind of thing he knows Blaise can't resist. "10,000 Galleons says he gets to America."

"Are you taking the piss out of me?"

"You'll be paying me back for all the gambling money you didn't actually win."

"Wanker," Blaise says, but he's grinning. "Okay then, but make it 1,000. I may be a prominent Death Eater, but—"

"Despite all the flashiness, you're as poor as the Weasel before he got all the mystery money?"

"Exactly." A pale hand stretches across the table and meets with a dark one, and together they shake to the fate of Weasley, to the fate of the Order, to the fate of the world.

.

~#~

.

"Expelliarmus!"

The shoot of red light makes Draco turn his head to where Longbottom and Jordan are running from a crowd of five or six Death Eaters. They duck behind chairs and roll under tables, smashing glasses and spraying fountains of poker chips and playing cards in every direction. Draco catches a single card as it twirls in the air and stuffs it into his pocket, perhaps as a reminder of this night. Or maybe it will stay in his pocket, be washed in it until the colors bleed an ugly pattern into the white and all that's left is a soggy, limp piece of paper that can fit in his palm.

"Protego!"

There's a crash, and a door blows open, misshapen chunks of its wood escaping its frame. Draco hears a scream, and he knows a woman has been hit, probably has a portion sinking into her flesh. Returning his gaze to the two Gryffindors under attack, he notices that there are thick rings of sweat under Longbottom's arms, and Jordan is clutching his elbow as if holding on tight enough will allow him to hold on to life.

Draco knows better.

The Death Eaters like to play cat and mouse, but it won't take long for them to start firing off Unforgivables, and Longbottom and Jordan are outnumbered, _vastly_ outnumbered. And the people here — they're just as irrelevant as Draco is. They won't act. They will melt into the walls, sink into the floor, twist themselves into the curtains, but never act. That would take courage, which seems to be in short supply here — it's rationed like food, gasoline, oil — and there isn't enough left for people to use it to the benefit of anyone but themselves.

Longbottom and Jordan go by him in a flash, and Draco wishes desperately that _he_ could fall into the walls, spread his limbs out until they're flat and paint himself into gray nothingness. Gray numbness. Because feeling nothing has to be better than what he's feeling now, looking into the faces of men who know they're about to die.

"Help us, please!" cries Longbottom, aiming a spell at a Death Eater.

"Come on, Malfoy!" Jordan joins in, and Draco presses his back against the wall and tries to look at something other than them.

"Malfoy, you're not a coward! I know it — you broke away from the Death Eaters, and you sent those supplies to us, didn't you? You're not a coward!" Longbottom repeats, his voice breaking.

"I am though," Draco says quietly, not even sure if they can hear him. "You were right, Longbottom, back in first year — you're worth twelve of me. You too, Jordan."

"No," Longbottom tries to argue, but there's a streak of green light and his words slip away, forever unsaid. Jordan puts his wand down then, offers Draco a nod of goodbye that he's sure he doesn't deserve, and is hit with the killing curse before the Slytherin can even return the gesture.

Draco's eyes start to sting, and he turns to face the wall. Nothingness. Numbness. That's what he's supposed to feel. He's supposed to be the one who isn't ruled by emotion, supposed to swim in this pool of pain and stay afloat, only he can't really breathe, and he might be drowning.

He slips his fingers into his pocket, and they brush the card he'd caught during the fight.

Ace of spades.

It's supposed to mean something, this playing card. He rubs the worn down edges of the card that must have gone through dozens of hands, been the cause of both triumph and failure, victory and defeat. There's a spot of red in the corner like the finger of the hand holding it was pricked by a needle. The spades, the spot — they means something.

Oh yes, now he remembers.

Ace of spades — the card of death.


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

She'd like to pretend that she doesn't know.

She'd like to pretend that she doesn't know about The Dragon, specifically about who owns it, and that her stomach doesn't flip, her hands don't sweat, and she most definitely does not get goosebumps up and down her arms.

Except she knows and she does.

A long time ago, she thought she knew _him_. They were eleven, prejudiced, and naive, and back then, exchanges of words laced with venom could make her cry. Words hardly pierce her anymore, and she thinks maybe she misses that, misses the times when the things people said mattered. Now they do little more than stir stagnant air, and sometimes, she doesn't hear anything at all.

A long time ago, she slapped him, because no one has ever been to make her blood boil like he can. She still remembers the red print on his cheek, exactly where it clashed with the white flesh, and the juxtaposition of it was more vindicating than she expected. The laughter that echoed the smack of palm against cheek was the brightest thing she'd heard in years.

A long time ago, he told her to keep her head down as fires broke out, as cheers shattered into screams, as a faceless army came to destroy. She talked about that day with him, years later of course, and she still isn't sure she understands exactly what triggered it, what made him warn off a girl who stood for everything he had so long claimed to despise.

A long time ago, she loved him, and all of the memories she associates with the word are the best and worst to remember. On the worst nights she takes out her journal, the one she started at the beginning of the war, and reads it by the dim light of a lumos spell.

It's in her lap now, its worn leather cover soft on her thigh, and she knows it's risky to read with Ron in the seat next to her, but she doesn't care. Sometimes, sometimes she gets these aches that demand to be felt, that nothing but memories and ink can satiate, and even then it's not enough, merely a lousy, temporary reprieve.

Still, she cracks open the cover to the first page as Ron begins to snore softly to her left and loses herself in the only words that seem to retain their meaning.

.

~#~

.

**_May 2, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Harry's gone. I don't remember how to breathe anymore. I think after so many years together, my body has forgotten how to live in a world without him in it, or maybe it just doesn't want to. It doesn't feel real yet, not in my heart, though my mind keeps reminding me._

_Harry's gone._

_Ginny is beside herself; we all are. Ron's not speaking to anyone, and I'm trying, but it hurts so much._

_Harry's gone._

_I never thought I would hate anyone, never thought I had the capacity for it, but I do. I hate Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, whatever he wants to call himself, with every bone in my body, every drop of my dirty blood._

_Harry's gone._

_He's not the only one, either. We're still discovering more corpses, and there's a list of the missing posted on the wall of the Great Hall. The Death Eaters left after the battle, and at first I thought it was a way of showing some respect, allowing us to find and bury the dead, but then... Then I realized that they left because they want to break us, our morale — to let us see our school in shambles, find the broken bodies of our friends, see the messages they spelled out for us in blood._

_THE PROPHECY HAS BEEN FULFILLED. LONG LIVE THE DARK LORD._

_I don't know whose blood they used to write that one, but it makes me shudder every time I walk by it._

_Harry's gone, and Merlin, I'm afraid for what the world is going to turn into without him._

**_May 3, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_We found Remus and Tonks. They were lying next to each other under a pile of rubble that was blasted off of Gryffindor Tower. I locked myself in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom and cried for three hours. She didn't even try to speak to me._

**_May 4, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Ron wants to get married. He told me this morning that he doesn't know how long we'll get to have together, and he wants to make the most of the time we have left. I understand his logic, found myself nodding to his words even, but I'm not sure that I can love anymore, not him, not anyone. All that I have in me is hate and anger and sadness._

_I still feel like I can't breathe. Harry'sgoneHarry'sgoneHarry'sgone._

**_May 25, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_I don't think I can do this — marry Ron I mean. He's one of...No, he __is__ my best friend, now that Harry isn't here._

_But I'm not in love with him, and maybe I shouldn't expect this in the world I'm living in now, but I want to be in love, __madly__ in love, with the man I marry. Is that too much to ask?_

_Ginny tells me it is. She can see it when I look at him — or rather, it's what she doesn't see that shows her the truth about my feelings. I can tell it hurts her that I don't know how to love Ron the way I'm supposed to, but I think it's also that she's jealous. Not a petty sort of jealousy but a bitter, heart-wrenching jealousy. I have the chance to marry someone who loves me when she lost the only man she's ever loved. I feel horribly guilty._

_Maybe I __should__ marry him. It's not as if there's anyone else. Oh, Godric, that sounds awful, doesn't it?_

_Okay, better justification: Ron needs me right now. Mrs. Weasley told me the other day that I'm the only reason he gets out of bed in the mornings. What are you supposed to say to something like that?_

_A) And he's the reason __I__ get out of bed in the mornings. (sappy lie)_

_B) I miss Harry too. (sad, honest)_

_C) I'm glad. (awkward, foot-in-mouth response)_

_I'm sure you can guess which one came out of my mouth — C, because obviously I don't know how to speak any better than I know how to breathe these days. Thankfully, Mrs. Weasley didn't comment, but Ginny glared at me over her stack of pancakes._

**_May 31, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_I did it. _

_I married him. _

_I feel numb._

**_June 14, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_We're planning an attack on the Death Eater Camp outside Kensington. Kingsley doesn't think I should go, doesn't trust me to hold it together because of what happened last week._

_It was night, and we were fighting in the woods, our boots snapping twigs in half and the trees' leaves creating a ceiling that nearly blocked out the pale glow of the moonlight. At first I thought I was fine, that it would be a therapeutic way to get out all of the hatred living inside me, but I kept seeing Harry's face, and then the anger was replaced with anxiety. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before — there were spots flashing behind my eyelids, sweat was soaking through my shirt, and my heart and breathing sped up in equal time. I felt dizzy, disoriented, like I was watching myself from somewhere far outside of my body, watching as I fell onto the carpet of the forest and trapped my knees to my chest._

_Suffice it to say, Kingsley considers a girl having a panic attack in the middle of a battle with Death Eaters to be a liability._

_In my defense, I __have__ been practicing. Bill's helping me. He said he experienced some of the same thing last year, after he was attacked by Fenrir Greyback, but now he's one of our best fighters._

_I hope I'll be able to say the same about myself soon._

**_June 21, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_It's the longest day of the year, usually one of my favorites. On June 21st, I like to wake up with the sun and watch the sunset, the oranges, pinks, and purples of the sky keeping me quiet company both morning and evening._

_This time, I didn't. This time, the only colors I saw were the violet of bruises, the white of bandages, the red of blood. The mission didn't go well — we lost Justin Finch-Fletchley, Pavarti Patil, Katie Bell, and Percy Weasley. Four new holes in my heart._

_Ron isn't speaking to anyone again._

**_June 25, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_The war is getting worse, and we, all of us Order members, are getting worse with it._

_I've been trying to comfort Ron, but most of my tactics haven't been very effective. I'm no good at being empathetic toward him, but he can't stand it when I play the sympathetic wife._

_Now I'm burying myself in research to pass the time while Ron is mute — Death Eater names, hideouts, common attack spells and their counter curses. I don't know whether any of it will be useful, but it feels good to be doing something, to scratch a quill against a piece of parchment and pretend that I'm in Hogwarts' library and not a shabby Order safe house, where the water only runs cold and the lights flicker whenever the wind blows._

_The wind is whistling right now, and Ron is leaving the window open, even though he knows I hate it._

_I won't remind him. _

_At least not tonight._

**_July 6, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Cho Chang and Ernie Macmillan were killed last night. The Death Eaters are getting stronger, and we're falling apart. I feel it — the creeping chill of fear leaking into my veins._

_Ginny yelled at me earlier, told me that I need to be strong for Ron, but how can I be? I can't even be strong for __myself__._

_I hope we win something soon. Anything._

**_August 4, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_George and Angelina are thinking of leaving, getting away from all of this. They asked me if I would judge them._

_I wouldn't._

**_August 5, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_They left in the early hours of the morning. I happened to be downstairs, drinking a cup of tea. Angelina looked at me, then at her rounded belly, then up at George. I nodded at them to let them know that I meant what I said._

_George gave me a hug and said to tell Ron he's sorry, and Angelina told me the baby names — Roxanne for a girl, Fred for a boy._

_I told her they were beautiful._

**_August 6, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Ginny suspects I knew about George and Angelina. I kept denying it, but I don't think I convinced her._

_As if she needed another reason to be angry with me..._

**_August 18, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_The Death Eaters slaughtered an entire Muggle village last night for no reason other than the fact that its residents weren't magical._

_Ginny let me cry on her shoulder._

**_September 1, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_For the second time in nearly a decade, I don't get to board the Hogwarts Express today, don't get to sit in a compartment with Harry and Ron and laugh my head off, don't get to reunite with everyone in the Great Hall and speculate on the upcoming school year._

_While Ron was out, I went up to our room and got my Gryffindor robes out of my trunk. I wore them for two hours, just sat there on the bed, not moving. I don't even know what I was thinking about. Everything? Nothing at all?_

_I think I might be going a bit mad._

**_September 13, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Finally__! Finally, a victory for the Order! We managed to take control of Parkinson Manor and captured a fair number of Death Eaters, and I feel like I could absolutely sing with relief!_

_I'm not ready to give up hope yet. Things were looking so bleak for so long that maybe I'm making this a bigger deal than it really is, but I don't care. Because we FINALLY won something!_

**_September 19, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Today is my birthday. Today I killed three people._

_Everyone seems to think the latter is more important, because they keep telling me how well I did in battle, and not one of them has said happy birthday. I don't know how that makes me feel._

**_October 20, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Ron's decided he wants children. I told him we could talk about it when the war's over, but he's being persistent. Perhaps the diminishing number of Weasleys has something to do with it, and I understand that; I do. But how could I possibly agree to bring a child into a world such as this one?_

_Things are looking up a tad, I'll admit, but still. __Still__, we're in the midst of a brutal war, and I'm fighting in it, for Merlin's sake! We have to secure our future before we make serious decisions concerning it!_

_Why can't he understand that?_

**_November 2, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_It's been six months. Ginny lit candles and wore an old jumper her mother knit for him. The gold "H" was piling, and the sleeves were too short on her skinny arms. It must have been from one of his early years at Hogwarts. Ginny tried to smile and said it lost his scent a while ago, but she still loves it._

_Sometimes I think life takes too much from people._

**_November 23, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_We're losing again._

_Ron hasn't mentioned anything about having children for weeks._

**_December 11, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Kingsley was killed. The Order is in shambles._

**_December 25, 1997_**

_Dear Diary,_

_It doesn't feel like Christmas. I just want today to be over, to stop pretending to be happy when it couldn't be further from reality. I miss my parents; I miss Harry; I miss Tonks and Remus and Fred and everyone we've lost. How can it be Christmas without them? How can I be joyful without them?_

_Ginny wore the jumper again today. I hugged her and told her that he would have loved to see her wearing it._

**_J__anuary 3, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Ron has taken it upon himself to try to lead us in some sort of direction. We've been fighting aimlessly for a while, just killing as many Death Eaters as we can before we're forced to retreat, but Ron wants to make plans again, elaborate, complicated missions that will work because of our low numbers instead of in spite of them._

_I'm proud of him. He's not Harry; no one will ever be Harry, but he's doing well, and our first mission was a success — we took back one of the safe houses we lost sometime in November and recovered Dean Thomas and Colin Creevey, who were trapped in the basement, isolated but not seriously harmed. Dean thinks the Death Eaters were planning on using them as bait later but hadn't gotten around to it yet._

_I'm glad they hadn't._

**_February 5, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Today __The Prophet__ featured Ron's picture on the front page. He's now enemy number one for the Death Eaters. He laughed it off, but I think he's more worried than he lets on. He was always envious of Harry in our school days, always wanted some of the fame and glory for himself, but he's fast discovering it's not all it's cut out to be — the enemy is counting on him to die, and we're counting on him to live. Harry grew used to the pressure, but I'm afraid Ron will crack under the weight of it._

**_February 27, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Ron is scheming. He has a huge mission in mind, and he won't tell me a thing. He hardly speaks to me in the morning when he wakes up, and when I come into our room at night, he pretends to be asleep. I don't know how much longer I can take the secrecy._

**_March 15, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Ron and Arthur were captured at midnight. It's ironic, in a way, that it would happen on the Ides of March. I, his Calpurnia, spent yesterday claiming a nightmare I had was reason not to go, but of course, my stubborn Caesar ignored me._

_I'm trying to fight the panic bubbling up inside of me, but it's getting more and more difficult with the looks everyone is giving me, like they expect me to burst into hysterical sobs any second. Mrs. Weasley held me for twenty minutes, not saying a word, and I almost did._

**_March 16, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_The Daily Prophet__ this morning: "RON AND ARTHUR WEASLEY, NOTED BLOOD TRAITORS, DEAD."_

_There are no words anymore. I know I'm alive, because otherwise this wouldn't hurt so much, but why do I feel like I'm dead too?_

_Maybe it's because I wish I were._

**_May 19, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_We have only a handful of safe houses left. This is the end, the part where we either give up or die at the hands of our enemies. I want to run. I don't need to go down in a blast of glory, because it won't make a difference anymore. There isn't anyone left to take the place I'll leave empty._

_Sometimes the only way to win is to lose willingly._

**_May 25, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_I'm in Paris. I used my last portkey during battle. So, not only am I in Paris, but also, I'm __alone__ in Paris. I have a feeling the Death Eaters will pick France as their next destination, and I should probably be scared, but right now, I don't care. I'm not fighting, and that's all that matters._

**_June 5, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_I've always had a good memory, and I've always been extremely proud of it, but sometimes...sometimes, it gets me in trouble. Take today, for example. Did I:_

_A) See Draco Malfoy and tell him to fuck off for letting in the Death Eaters sixth year and starting this madness._

_B) See Draco Malfoy and tell him very sincerely that I understand why he left on the night of the Hogwarts battle._

_C) See Draco Malfoy and tell him happy birthday._

_If you guessed C, congratulations. You realize that I am, in fact, an idiot._

_He seemed shocked more than anything. Shocked to see me and then shocked that my first words to him would be "happy birthday." I mean, honestly. It's as if I was trying to come off awkward and creepy._

_Obviously, I needed a quick recovery. Did I:_

_A) Mention my good memory and brush it off like no big deal._

_B) Get defensive and ask how I could forget his birthday when he was always sure to snottily remind everyone to send presents over the summer._

_C) Sprint away._

_It's shameful, diary._

_And yet, I saw him, yelled happy birthday, and bolted out of the cafe and back to my dirt-cheap flat._

_Paris is a big city, though, right? No need to work myself up about it — I won't see him again._

**_June 17, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_I did run into him again — literally this time and with groceries in my arms no less. The jar of tomato sauce broke on the sidewalk and splattered all over both of us, and he surprised me by not Scourgifying his pants or shirt. He told me that the Death Eaters are tracking areas where magic occurs frequently, so he's hardly using his wand._

_Then I invited him up to my flat to wash up, because...Well, I'm not sure why, exactly. Curiosity, I suppose, the mystery that Draco Malfoy became after Hogwarts. I wanted to know what he'd been doing all this time._

_It wasn't just that though — I'm lonely. There, I admit it. I've had no contact with anyone in the wizarding world, and it's nice to know that I'm not the only one here. Sure, it's Malfoy, and he's still a prat, but he did leave the Death Eaters, which took courage. Plus, he's essentially living as a Muggle at the moment, so it's not as if the blood purity matters to him anymore. And based on our conversations, I don't think it does. He's different — the same but different._

_I told him so, and he gave me a strange look and told me I was too — that I was the same but different._

_And now I'm awake at four in the morning because even though I know what I meant by it, I can't stop questioning what __he__ meant._

_Oh, Merlin, now it's five._

**_June 19, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Today Malfoy and I went to The Louvre. Would you like to know a secret, diary?_

_I think there's a strong possibility that Malfoy's as intelligent as I am._

_The way he talked about the pieces, even the ones he dislikes...It was beautiful to hear, like I was listening to art as well as looking at it._

_His favorite painting is __The Raft of the Medusa__ by Géricault. The story is quite disturbing — I'll spare you the details; "shipwreck" and "cannibalism" are enough to get the gist of it — yet the painting is astonishing, or at least it seemed that way to me when I saw it. Perhaps that was Malfoy's doing, for the way he spoke of it sent sparks down my spine and raised gooseflesh on my arms and legs._

_"There are three types of people in the world," he said, when he was standing right in front of it (it's massive by the way — the people are done to scale). "And this painting encompasses all of them. On the left, there's despair, darkness, pain; on the right, there's hope and light, and then in the middle, there are people at an impasse — unable to decide which side they belong to. The work isn't historically accurate, but it's not even about the historical aspect of it anymore, because really...really, it's about us, about __people__. And it's asking the question — who do you want to be?" At this point, his voice had taken on a raspy, sort of choking sound, and I didn't look at him (even though I desperately wanted to) because I had a feeling he would stop if I did. But it didn't end up mattering, because he turned to face me and asked, "Who do you want to be?"_

_Not who I was. Not who I thought I could be, or should be, or would be, but who I __wanted__ to be. I couldn't remember anyone ever asking me that before, not Harry, not Ron, not __anyone__, and I told him so._

_"No one ever asked me that question, either," he said, and I thought I was going to cry._

_"The one waving the flag," I said finally, after a half-hearted attempt to collect myself. "Never giving up even when it seems like I'm going to be lost at sea forever."_

_And this...this was when I realized that Draco Malfoy is really something._

_"But aren't we all perpetually lost at sea? Alone and drifting between hope and despair, goodness and wickedness if there are such things... That's why this one is my favorite. Because even though it tells a historical lie, it's the truest thing I've ever seen."_

_I let myself stare at him the rest of the day._

**_June 22, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_I'm working on calling Malfoy "Draco." I haven't actually tried it out loud yet, because it feels taboo after all those years of bullying in school, but I will eventually (the keyword, of course, being "eventually"). I wonder what Harry would think — I suppose he's laughing at my ridiculous immaturity right now. Draco surprised me at breakfast by bringing Harry up. He said...well, I suppose I should just write it down rather than paraphrase, shouldn't I? Otherwise, I'll mess it all up._

_"I wish Potter were here."_

_I'm sure you can imagine my shock, and he wasn't even close to being done._

_"Why?" I asked, in between bites of my buttery croissant (which I'm salivating at the mere thought of — don't judge; I haven't eaten dinner yet)._

_"I think I would've liked to know him. We were just stupid kids in school, had no idea what was coming...I'm not proud of the person I was. Looking back, I wish I hadn't antagonized him as soon as he rejected my offer of friendship on the train to Hogwarts. I might've liked him — he was actually kind of funny whenever I'd try to take the piss out of him — if I hadn't made up my mind to hate him...and you, but I suppose that was for more than just your friendship with Potter."_

_"My blood," I guessed then, and he nodded._

_"It seems so ridiculous now."_

_"When did you change your mind?" It had to have been before the battle at Hogwarts._

_"I think I started doubting subconsciously in fourth year, when the Death Eaters attacked at the World Cup, because I warned you as soon as I saw you. I didn't even have an internal debate about it, just sort of blurted it."_

_"You could have said it a bit nicer, you know." He laughed at that one, a genuine laugh that lit up his face. I don't think I'd seen him laugh like that before — you know, a laugh without malice, a complete "laughing with you" not "laughing at you" kind of thing. It was...I don't know. Nice?_

_"You can't honestly deny that you have a big, bushy head," he said next, and then I laughed too. I felt my hair a bit; it was frizzy as ever in the summer heat._

_"I suppose not."_

_"But anyway," he continued, "I knew for sure I was done with the Dark when I saw the battle going on at the end of sixth year. It was — well, I had nightmares for months. Still do sometimes. I realized, seeing all that torture and death, that we're all the same under a layer of flesh — pure-bloods, Muggle-borns, even Muggles — just bones and blood, pieced together a little differently. And to hurt people for the way they're genetically structured...it made no sense to me; the entire Dark belief system made no sense to me anymore."_

_So that's the most important stuff, I think. Maybe I'll remember more later, but my hand's cramping (and, okay, maybe I'm still thinking about that croissant — the bakery stays open late)._

**_July 18, 1998_**

_Dear Diary,_

_Here's something I never thought I'd write: I actually like Draco Malfoy. I'm not sure how it happened, only that it did, and I feel the happiest I have in months._

_He brings them out of me somehow: the smiles, the laughs. I try to tell jokes too, but they're usually extremely cheesy or academics-related. Or both. And they're bloody horrible, all of them, but he laughs anyway, and I'm grateful for it. Grateful for him, Draco. Ha. I'm still not used to that._

_But you know what? I'm getting there. _

.

~#~

.

The car screeches to a halt outside of The Dragon, the windows of which provide most of the light on the street. There's music playing inside, light music that provides a backdrop for conversation rather than actual entertainment. She shakes Ron's shoulder, rouses him as he grumbles about time zones and travel, and together they make their way out of the vehicle and into the building. The crowd is buzzing, and she gets the feeling she's missed something important. Ron's hand rests firmly on her back, and it makes her skin crawl to know that she dreams of someone else's hands when she goes to sleep. Ron's palms are too wide, his fingers too thick, but if she tries hard enough, she can pretend that they're no different.

Sometimes it feels like he's not real, like she never got the letter from Molly telling her that Ron had escaped. She pictures waking up in Paris, her back curving like the metal spines of the Eiffel as she rings out the ache of sleep. And then she'll see a head of white blond hair, the rest of him burrowed in a cocoon of blankets and pillows, the spindly points of his limbs concealed...

She doesn't want to see him tonight, but she's also not sure she's ever wanted anything more. She wonders about him too much, worries about him. She chews her fingernails as she pictures him trying on the old sneer he used to wear, seeing if it still fits. The hardest thing is when she pictures him not in love with her anymore. That, _that_, is what she doesn't want to see.

Ron steers her toward a table in the back, and she lets him lead her as her bones turn brittle, like they could snap with even the slightest pressure. It's a wonder she's moving at all, and she hardly notices when Ron pulls out a chair and gently nudges her into it.

"Thank you," she tries to say, but the words stick in her head, don't make their way to her vocal cords. She smiles instead, a dull smile that she's sure he would see through if he tried to see her at all. When he doesn't reciprocate, she picks up the deck of cards in front of her and starts to sort them. Organization has always calmed her down, and she needs it more than ever tonight. The queen of hearts looks rather miserable, and she supposes she understands the feeling. Love, more often than not, is a canvas of misery, the happiness mere flecks of bright hues in comparison.

The cards are stacked into neat piles, almost perfect. The ace of spades is missing, which she finds ironic, considering all this world seems to have in abundance is death, and it's going to irritate her to no end if she can't find another card to replace the ace. She drums her fingers on the tabletop for a moment before mumbling something about powdering her nose to Ron, and then she's drifting through the room. She tells herself she's looking for the card, but she knows better, hasn't really been able to lie to herself for years.

She can smell firewhiskey and cologne, and she closes her eyes for a moment to bask in the familiarity of it, yet another thing she's missed that she will never have the ability to replace.

"Granger," a voice says, and she can't decide if it's in her head or if it's real or which one she wants it to be. Hermione opens her eyes slowly and chokes on her next breath, because she can see betrayal in his eyes, betrayal she put there when she left him with a cold bed and a vague note, its only definity in its goodbye.

"Draco," she whispers back, and this time the syllables leave her lips, broken though they might be. "I was just looking for a card, an ace of spades actually. I — it's missing from the deck, and you know how I — I mean, my thing about everything being in its place." Hermione clears her throat then and tries to break eye contact, only the with the way Draco's looking at her, it's impossible.

"Ace of spades," he says, nodding. "Card of death."

"Right, yes."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls from it a card with splotches of red, and she knows it's not simply ink that's run over weeks of use. "You have one too."

"I — what? No, I asked because I _don't_ have that card. I specifically said—"

Draco chuckles as she flounders, and she has to bite down on her bottom lip to remind herself that this is real real real.

"In your hand, Granger. You have a card in it."

"In my — oh." She holds it up to the light. "The queen of hearts. I was thinking of how wretchedly unhappy she looks, and I must've forgotten to put it down."

"Cards of wretched love and death. It's almost poetic," he says, snatching her gaze back from the face of the card.

"Almost, if it weren't so tragic."

"Beauty can be found in tragedy."

"Says the masochist."

"Says the idealist."

They break out in grins at the same time, and for a moment, it _is_ beautiful.

"Your card," says Draco, and the card brushes the tips of her fingers. Draco's hand wraps around hers, over the queen and ace, and she knows that there's so much to explain, so much to do, so much more fighting to go, but for the first time in months, she actually feels like fighting. She, like Harry always said, has something worth fighting for.

"Thanks for that."

**FIN.**

**A/N: So we've come to the end - well, unless I write a sequel, which is definitely possible. We'll just have to see how much free time I have :) Thanks again for reading - please review if you enjoyed it. Or if you didn't. I'm tough enough to take it ;)**


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